


The Surprises of Retirement

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: This is going to be a series of fluffy ficlets to give myself (and hopefully you too) something nicer and softer than the angst of The Disappearance of John Watson. Assuming Holmes and Watson did not meet before and did not live together at 221B , watch them meet each other on walks in the Downs where they have both retired.





	1. The First Encounter

The weather was breezy but sunny on this May weekend as I went for a ramble along the cliffs near the sleepy little village of East Dean. I had finally resolved to leave London, though not without concern or trepidation, and was slowly moving my belongings out of the flat in Baker Street and into the small cottage I had managed to acquire here in the Downs. 

All of this was taking rather longer than I had anticipated and the constant stretch between city and country life was taking its toll on my nerves. 

I do not claim to be the most immaculate of fellows – my dear landlady would, even at her old age, vouch more than happily for the disarray in my quarters – but to have things strewn here and there, never quite certain where something was when it was urgently needed was proving more than just an inconvenience. 

And so I had decided to escape the mounting frustration by taking refuge in nature. The weather was inviting enough and with a hat pulled over my eyes and a scarf wrapped around my neck even the harsh winds were bearable.

I wandered peacefully for quite a while, relishing the tranquillity of all that surrounded me. The sea below had its very own rhythm and the clouds drifted across a rich blue sky at an almost faster pace. 

I truly cherished the effect of it all but pondered nonetheless whether it would soon turn to my disadvantage. After all, what helped my mind unwind now could sooner or later become the instrument that turned my brain blunt and useless. 

What I needed was stimulation, this much had remained constant even as the years had advanced, and with my retirement decided upon, it was up to me to ensure that I would not grow stagnant. Of course, for the foreseeable future I would remain occupied with the move and then, perhaps, I would acquire some hives to set up in the garden, not to mention the volumes of case notes that needed organising and storing away securely. 

I was so engrossed in my own thoughts and plans that I only noticed him when our paths were about to cross. 

He was an ordinary gentleman and by the wrinkles that lined his face it was simple enough to read that he was of roughly my own age. He walked with a limp and a stiffness of posture that hinted at another injury, and yet his blue eyes were brimming over with warmth and…something else…when they took me in. 

Something within them captured me at that very moment and held me suspended, capable only of gazing back. I could have easily drawn more deductions from observing him closely, but somehow I found that I did not want to. I wanted this man, this stranger, to remain untouched, intact even, an utter mystery that it would take years of my life to unravel. 

What he had touched within me I could not yet put into words, but I knew I had to speak anyhow if I did not want him to think me peculiar. 

“What a pleasant day!” 

His face eased into an even gentler smile, his eyes shining with mutual agreement. 

“Yes, there’s nothing quite like a walk in the fresh air, especially with views like these.” 

I nodded along, hoping that he would say more, but he seemed much too unassuming and well-mannered to engage me in what might be considered unwanted conversation. Little did he know how much I thirsted to hear him speak, to stay in his company just a while longer so that we might have an occasion to speak again. 

But he remained respectfully quiet and so did I and after bidding each other farewell, our ways parted once more, my thoughts occupied now by different matters entirely.


	2. Rain

It was raining. The silence broken by fat, heavy drops falling slowly but thickly onto the roof of my little cottage. The sound seemed amplified somehow, as if the largely empty interior of the building provided an excellent body for it. 

I had seated myself at the centre of what would soon become my living room, the carpet laid out here a comfort from the wooden boards that made up the floor everywhere else. Stacks of paper and books, as well as half unpacked suitcases surrounded me, their presence a daunting reminder of the task I had set myself. 

But even so, I found my mind wandering more often than not to the strange encounter near the cliffs, making any progress nearly impossible. 

It had been embarrassingly difficult to forget about him, to catch myself when I was tempted to reflect upon what was said and the impressions I’d gathered, even harder still not to let my brain slip into the deductions that were so inevitable to my person.

I could not say with absolute certainty what I found most beguiling about him, his commanding stride despite his obvious injuries, the intricate, light lashes that framed those kind blue eyes or the wrinkles that accentuated his face and drew attention to every moment of joy or grief he had savoured. 

Though perhaps this lens was too superficial to see what had truly moved me. Perhaps this whole affair occupied me so because no-one had touched me quite like he had before.

I had engaged in no relationships so common to my sex, had not felt the flutter of infatuation or the desperate, impassioned pull one often found described in novels. I had witnessed beauty consciously, even admitted to myself that there was a grace found in the movement and gestures of some men. I had felt warmth and affection for my brother and landlady and on occasion even for the inspector of the Yard who accompanied me on many cases. But there was never a moment that had left me quite as shaken as that brief encounter with the stranger on the cliffs. 

As the rain gently subsided, I pushed the untouched stack of papers aside and rose to my feet with some effort. These days I could feel the strain of years spent chasing after criminals or lingering crouched in some hideout. Thankfully, I did not suffer from the curvature of the spine that befell so many men of my generation, but my body grew weary much more swiftly, and mercilessly punished me with aches and pains that refused to shift.

I would catch a chill venturing out in this weather, I knew, and yet I could not resist the temptation that beckoned me. It was tantalising to think that he might have made a similarly reckless decision, that by some logic and reason-defying twist of fate we were to meet again today. 

I lifted my trusted scarf out of one of the suitcases and shrugged into my coat. I had just made to retrieve my hat from the rack when I caught my reflection in the nearby window. The flush of excitement I noticed upon my cheeks startled and thrilled me in equal measure and before I could overthink my motive, I stepped outside and into the fresh, rain-washed air. 

The cliffs called my name instantly and I strode towards them, ignoring the beads of water that bravely leaped from blades of grass to cling on to my trouser legs. 

I only slowed when the sea became visible through the slowly lifting mist that swirled just above the choppy waters. The spectacle was so mesmerising, in fact, that I came to a complete halt and observed that which nature had to offer. 

I am almost embarrassed to admit how easily I lost myself, as if my mind thirsted to seize the opportunity to forego all these foolish ponderings that had occupied me previously. 

I say this to explain why it took me by complete surprise to feel a hand upon my back. 

“Careful now, don’t startle.” 

I am ashamed to admit that it was his voice that sent my pulse racing and not the sudden intrusion. 

Schooling my features, I turned around to meet his gaze, feeling my lips twitch into a nervous smile. My God, how easily he made me feel my inexperience!

“Apologies,” he cast his eyes down before finding mine again, “I thought perhaps you were gripped by some fearsome black mood.” 

“On the contrary. I was admiring the view…again. It is even more spectacular today now that the wind has whipped up the sea. I am moving down here from London, you see, so I am still enjoying the novelty of it all.” 

“A much more pleasant reason then for standing at the edge of a cliff.” 

He chuckled and my heart soared. Had he any idea how achingly beautiful he was? 

“I was concerned…the weather can bring out the worst…” he trailed off, leaving me to fill in the blanks of a story I had already half pieced together. 

“We could use more men like that,” I hurried to assure him, “those that care and intervene.” 

My remark flattered him visibly and I let him savour it as the clouds drew together above us and the first drizzle started to set in again. I watched on as the drops settled and then dispersed amongst the grey strands that streaked through his hair, swallowing down whatever instructions my treacherous heart was whispering to me. 

“Dr John Watson,” he spoke at last, extending his hand, “it seems we will be becoming neighbours of sorts.” 

I followed his gaze down the shoreline where a number of houses stood clustered together even when the pressure of his hand held me arrested. The possibility of more fleeting encounters like these was flashing before my eyes. 

“Yes, I shall look forward to that. Perhaps we can get better acquainted then, too.” 

“If the weather permits it,” he nodded and chuckled richly and easily. 

“Indeed. It seems quite determined at present to keep us cooped up inside.” 

The drops were coming faster and harder now, soaking the long, beige coat that he had thrown on. Then there was nothing more to be said and we parted company with the quiet comfort that had marked even our first encounter.


	3. The Doctor

The weather cleared and with the sunshine came the heat. I had hired a Landau as well as a series of wagons  to deliver my furniture and some of my bulkier belongings to the cottage in the Downs.

Mrs Hudson, my landlady, had visited her old flat in Baker Street to mark the occasion. After all, I had been renting those rooms for several decades. 

Our relationship had been turbulent at times, for I was, undoubtedly, the worst tenant in London. I did not like to spend much time on house-keeping and was particularly careless when in the middle of a gripping case. More than once the poor woman had walked in to discover a haphazard trail of paper clippings, files and tobacco on the carpet.

Now, as I gazed down at her smaller, thinner frame, I remembered those shouts of outrage almost fondly. Had I been a more sentimental character, I might have likened her to a mother figure. But I could not bring myself to do so, not now that we were saying our final farewell. I did embrace her, however, with all the fondness I secretly harboured and pressed a kiss upon her brow, so that she might remember me. 

She was well cared for and satisfied in the countryside surrounded by family and that thought gave me comfort as I climbed into the carriage and began the long journey south. 

Venturing out in the rain the previous weekend had been a foolish and impulsive act and I was slowly starting to pay the price. A chill had nestled itself into my bones and was making me ache rather pitifully. 

I should have postponed the bigger part of this move, but it would have spelled an unnecessary delay for Mrs Hudson and if I was to be entirely truthful, an unnecessary prolonging of a decision that had been difficult enough to make. 

The longer I lingered in London, the easier it was to be drawn back into the chase. Better I was far away from it all, enjoying anonymity and peace. 

Alas, there was none to be had on this jostling cart that made my body sore with every bump. Minutes dragged excruciatingly into hours and by the time the blue line of the sea appeared on the horizon, I yearned for the comfort of my bed and little else. 

But of course there was the matter of paying the driver, not to mention the chore of moving everything into the cottage. I would have to sit by and wait and yet even that seemed too tedious to stomach. 

I did not know it at the time, but my arrival in the late afternoon caused quite the stir in the village. Dr Watson would tell me all about it a few days later when he stopped by the cottage for a visit. 

I was practically bed-bound by then, congested and with a heavy cough that refused to shift. So when I perceived a knock upon the door I was sorely tempted to pretend I had not heard it and remain in bed. 

But my manners commanded me in the end to do what’s right and so I threw on my nearby robe and clambered down the stairs. Had I known it was him, I certainly would have taken more care of my appearance. But as it stood, I was blissfully ignorant and opened the door with hair that was matted down from the sweat of my fever and bare feet sticking out from beneath the hem of both night shirt and robe. 

“Oh goodness, my dear fellow. Please don’t be offended by me saying so, but you look dreadful.” 

I must have frozen for a moment, because he seemed dreadfully embarrassed and hurried to apologise.

 “Please, there is no need for that. It is me who ought to apologise for my state of undress. I am not feeling well and frankly wasn’t expecting any visitors.” 

A strange struggle of emotions played out on his face then, as if he was trying to come to terms with a difficult decision. Finally, he reached for my hand and touched my pulse point with index and middle finger. 

I could barely draw a breath for fear of startling him away and instead stared at his face in awe while he continued his administrations. At last he announced me terribly unwell and ushered me back into the house, instructions which I followed like a dutiful student. 

It was almost laughable how I found myself escorted to my own sofa while a stranger prepared tea in my barely furnished kitchen. Embarrassing, too, was the mess that dominated most of the cottage. 

I could hardly bear to think what he made of me, the man who went for walks in the rain, who forgot to reciprocate introductions as if he had something to hide and who could not maintain a tidy household. In short, Dr Watson was becoming rapidly acquainted with those attributes I least liked about myself, and I found it a rather unnerving experience. 

At length, he returned to me, however, cradling the hot beverage between his broad hands. He set it down on the table before me and then reached for a blanket which I had haphazardly flung across the sofa’s back and proceeded to wrap me in it until I was comfortably warm. 

“Drink,” he urged with gentle firmness, “your body needs to increase its intake of liquids if it wants to function. Though I really must insist that once the cup is empty you return to bed.” 

“I won’t protest, doctor,” I managed with a playful albeit tired smile which brought a delightfully embarrassed blush to his cheeks, “a bed is really where I belong. I can hardly manage to sit up what for this terrible throbbing in my head.” 

“Then I shan’t intrude on you for longer than absolutely necessary, though I must satisfy myself that you have the means of looking after yourself.” 

“Of course,” I permitted, quite frankly astounded by the firm manner in which he took charge. 

His blue eyes were focused and bright and his jaw set in a determined line. There was a stricter air around him now, undoubtedly owed to his military background – it was so painfully apparent in his stride and the location of his injuries, no matter how hard I tried not to deduce – but surprisingly I found it just as becoming as the softness that usually pervaded his features.

I let him talk to me about nourishment, medicine and items of comfort until he seemed content in the knowledge that I would survive without further assistance. I let him examine the state of my pupils and my throat, allowed him to press a cool hand to my forehead to feel my temperature and secretly welcomed it when he suggested to accompany me up to my bedroom. 

He wanted to air it out, he said, for it would help with the congestion I complained about. And so together we ascended the stairs, him guiding me gently by the elbow as if he was navigating around his own house, and while he flung open the windows of my little chamber and the sounds of nature soothingly filtered in, I crawled into bed, pleased to be adapting a horizontal position once more. 

“You know, you still haven’t told me your name.” 

He turned away from the window to face me as he was saying it, and I was relieved to find him smiling. 

“You’ve caused quite the stir in the village already and now I’m wondering if there’s reason for it.” 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I offered up evenly, watching on with some pleasure as he put name to person, transforming me into something whole in the process, “and after a life-time of chaos I am hoping to find some peace here. Though I am not surprised to have roused the villagers’ curiosity. I am the novelty, the unpredictable factor, after all.” 

His forehead creased gently into a frown. “You speak as if you don’t approve.” 

“I don’t,” I supplied simply, “to be perfectly honest, I do not believe it to be their business. I am a solitary creature and do not care much for the intrusion one so often finds in secluded areas such as these.” 

“And yet you chose this spot for your retirement,” he pointed out kindly, giving my arm a squeeze on his way to the door. “I would wait another ten minutes or so before closing the windows again. The sea air will do you good.” 

He had almost left when he paused as if struck by a sudden notion and ran a finger pensively along the length of his greying moustache. 

“I will be back in a day or two to see how you are.” 

And with that he bade me farewell and took his leave. Somehow I appeared to have acquired a doctor.


	4. A Spot of Tea

Dr Watson remained true to his word and paid me another visit just a few days later.

In his absence, the weather had altered between glorious sunshine and thunderous downpours that had transformed my chamber from a steam room to an ice box. I exaggerate, of course, but it was rather tiresome to drag oneself out of bed to fling the windows open or shut them again based on the whims of the weather. But I digress.

Dr Watson found me on a day that had been largely marked by heavy rainfall. I had not expected him but took great precautions as to my appearance when the knock on the door reverberated through the silence in the cottage.

I exchanged my nightshirt for a pair of well-worn but clean trousers, as well as a dress-shirt over which I fastened my mouse-coloured robe. I took the luxury of halting near the basin in my room to assess my own appearance and after carefully slicking back my hair, I descended the staircase that led towards the front chamber of the house.

As I advanced, I could already spot him peering in through the window and chuckled to myself as his honest concern gave way to embarrassment at having been caught.

“I did not mean to pry,” he, therefore, offered the moment I opened the door, “I was worried your illness had taken a turn for the worse and you were fully incapacitated.”

“Not by a simple cold, doctor,” I assured him, quite unable, I’m certain, to hide the playfulness that glistened in my eyes.

He was very proper, it seemed, very careful not to cause offence. Such behaviour was almost foreign to my person. I had always been aware, at times even painfully aware of my own eccentricities and – a short, uncomfortable and unhappy period of adolescence aside – had acted according to my own volition, refusing to compromise.

But he was a softer character, one that wanted to understand and be understood and because of that his careful approach was almost endearing.

“You’d be surprised,” he murmured and stepped past me and into the living room.

I had expected him to chuckle indulgently or perhaps scold me for my cheek, but this sudden subdued mood I had not anticipated.

I followed him deeper into the room and beckoned him to take a seat which he did, absent-mindedly rubbing his left ring finger between index finger and thumb. I had noticed it before, of course, that subtle white line that marked the spot where once a wedding ring had been. But I had given it no further consideration, since I was determined to learn about him only as much as he was willing to offer. And for the time being that was where he left it at, lost in thought as he still was.

“Tea?” I suggested gently, stopping short of touching his arm.

I yearned to be closer, to feel the fabric of his crisp, white shirt crinkle in the palm of my hand. I wished to feel the warmth of his flesh hidden beneath tingle the tips of my fingers.

But the gesture would have been selfish, brought about primarily by my own needs, thinly veiled behind the altruistic motive of offering comfort. And so I would refrain.

Instead, I retreated to the kitchen to heat up water and prepare the tea, uttering a delighted cry when upon opening one of the boxes I encountered a number of biscuits.

Mrs Hudson, that kind old woman!

From the depth of the one and only mounted cabinet I withdrew a small plate and served up the treats along with the tea.

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” Watson laughed when I emerged, “here I am to tend to you and it is you who is looking after me.”

“You are my guest, are you not?”

He smiled and inclined his head.

“So eat and drink, and in the meantime I will tell you all about my health so you needn’t feel guilty.”

It was terribly rewarding to make him smile and as he reclined on my sofa, I began to fill in him on how I’d been faring.

He listened patiently and with genuine interest, reaching now and again for the plate of biscuits which seemed entirely to his liking. As a matter of fact, it was rather amusing to see him eat with such relish as if the walk from the village to my cottage had made him half-famished.

“You do seem to be on the mend,” he concluded once I had finished talking, feeling both my forehead and my pulse to gain certainty. “In a day or so I suggest you join me on a ramble through the countryside. The exercise and fresh air will do the rest for your constitution.”

I must reiterate again how much I enjoyed it when he took charge, and who was I to argue with the doctor’s orders?

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Excellent,” he hummed, rubbing his hands together in a satisfied fashion.

I watched him over the rim of my cup as he drank his tea, wondering how a man who I had only just met could fit so seamlessly into my life.

“What did you do before you decided to retire here?” he asked at last, aware of my continued glances. “You’re not a very forthcoming person.”

“No, I have always been private. I used to be – though it feels like I might always be – a consulting detective. Those disappointed in or shunned by the inspectors of the Yard sought me out and hired me for various cases.”

He didn’t seem to have expected that answer, for he hurriedly lowered his cup upon the saucer and shifted forward until the very edge of the sofa.

“Marvellous! That must have been terribly compelling!”

My God, could the doctor crave the excitement of the chase as much as I? Had the years in the war furnished him with a taste for adventure?

His entire body language suggested as much. Hardly capable of sitting still, he was scooting here and there, pushing his palm back and fro on his thigh. He had transformed before me into a young boy, eager to unwrap a gift on Christmas morning.

“At times it could be,” I granted, careful not to spoil his good mood, “but London’s criminal underground can also sadly be more predictable. Very often the answer to the problem was painfully obvious.”

“And you’re the kind of fellow who enjoys a good mystery?”

“Quite,” I nodded, unable to deny him the smile he so easily brought to my face. “Give me a riddle, a complex problem. My brain thirsts for stimulation!”

Oh, how eagerly he clung to my every word! How exhilarating the thrill of those blue eyes focused intently on my lips.

“But surely there must have been some spectacular cases, Holmes!”

“Of course, of course,” I chuckled, holding up my hands.

He had to be thinking me sickeningly arrogant, had I not yet produced one of my typical deductions that proved my skill.

“Well, go on then. It is only polite to share after so bold a statement.”

“Oh, my dear fellow. You must be patient. There have been so many cases and I am not as young as I once was.”

Surely, he knew that I was toying with him. How those blue eyes twinkled, and then he reached across and gave my knee a squeeze.

“Go on now. Tell me.”

Well, how could I resist?

“Truth be told, Watson, I have rough notes on almost every case I have handled in the past,” I explained, rising to my feet and away from his touch only reluctantly.

With his eyes firmly fixed upon a point between my shoulder-blades, I stalked across the length of the room and unearthed another storage box from the rubble and debris that were my scattered belongings.

“What kind of mystery do you enjoy, doctor?” I asked, thumbing gently through my stash of notes.

“Any,” came his excited reply, and I instantly forgave him this rather vague response.

“Very well, let us begin with a simple case of murder.”

My eyes briefly flew over the lines of my own writing while a smile of remembrance blossomed on my face. The one case in which Inspector Lestrade had almost bested me. Yes, this would prove an excellent start.

“Murder,” Watson whispered with great respect and nodded his head in agreement, “capital, capital!”

Pushing the file back down into the box, I leaned back on the sofa and picked up my teacup.

“One rainy morning, a young man came stumbling into my chamber at 221B Baker Street, upsetting my landlady greatly. He only had a few minutes, he said, before the people that had followed him would catch up with him there. Naturally intrigued, I beseeched him to tell me the details of this singular occurrence. Well, he wasted no time in telling me that he was accused of murder of a man whom he had only recently encountered.”

“How strange!” announced Watson and I was pleased to see him so invested in the story already.

“My client was a lawyer and had been hired by the murder victim to draw up a will, a will that listed him as the sole heir and beneficiary. Well, I am certain you’ll understand my client’s surprise, having only just met this fellow. The reason for this generous gesture was a previous liaison between the victim and the client’s mother.”

I paused to see if Watson was following the tale so far, and his bright gaze told me that he was quick to understand and retain information.

“All was well for a while until the day came for my client to sign the contract. He went to the victim’s house, stayed quite late and spent the night at a local inn. When he made to leave the following morning, he saw the headline of the murder in the newspaper and suddenly found himself a suspect. At this point, Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard – a familiar character, if you permit me to say so – appeared to drag the pitiful young man from my room and in custody he remained while I tried to work out what had truly transpired. The evidence, you see, was damning. My client’s stick had been found in the victim’s room and outside a fire had been lit, and both the local fire brigade and the victim’s housekeeper recalled the pungent smell of burning flesh.”

“How terrible!” Watson’s face had grown overcast, but he still looked very interested. “So you are telling me he was innocent?”

“Yes,” I concluded, swallowing the last of my tea, “now, I shan’t give you any clues, but you may ask me anything that could bring you closer to the truth.”

Companionable silence descended upon us while he pondered this rather curious affair. I left him to it, soothed by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the close proximity of our knees.

“I shall have to think upon it some more!” he announced at long last and with a tired sigh rose to his feet.

“Of course. Perhaps you will have some questions for me on that ramble you suggested.”

“Yes, I daresay that would be an excellent occasion, Holmes.”

I walked him to the door where he donned the tweed flat cap that had flimsily protected him from the rain on his way up and bade him farewell, impatient for our next encounter which would thankfully happen sooner than I’d expected.


	5. By the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your response to this has been amazingly great. Thanks ever so much, guys! If there's anything you'd like to see happen in this fic (you know a favourite trope or something) just shoot me a message or leave me a comment. This chapter was very much inspired by Windmaedchen's great drawing!

I spent the time of Watson’s absence moving my belongings from one room to the next which gave the momentary illusion of tidiness in the chambers that had suddenly become vacant of clutter. It wasn’t that I did not intend to finish the work but that whenever I settled down to filter through my boxes, I would start to recall the exact curve of his smile or the heat of knee against knee. Behaviour that served as a reminder why I had steered clear of romantic entanglements for the majority of my life, that and the simple fact that I had not felt such deep attraction to anyone before. 

In a manner quite unusual to myself, I anticipated his arrival any minute of every day. Every unfamiliar sound outside made me raise my head in hope, every rattle of the window frame seemed to announce his presence. 

But he did not come, not until the days turned consistently warmer. 

In my desperate craving for his presence, I even ventured to the village earlier than planned to stock up on groceries. I despised the cordialities that go hand in hand with such outings, but I was hoping to catch a glimpse of him at the market. A hope that very quickly transformed into disappointment.

I won’t claim that my mood wasn’t affected by his absence. I had always been of queer temperament, joyful and content one minute, despairing and hopeless the next. And, oh, there were few things more devastating than dashed expectations. 

So when I did not force myself to unpack my life, I lay listlessly on the sofa, drawing the blue smoke of the pipe deep into my lungs. 

That is how the good doctor found me when he finally came to knock on my door after what felt like an age. If my unkempt appearance surprised him still, he did not show it and I, myself, must admit that he looked rather more rumpled than usual. 

The tan of his skin was a testimony to days spent in the sun, but there was a delightful sheen of perspiration to it now and his ordinarily neat hair was rather becomingly swept to one side and gently matted down. 

“I was wondering, Holmes, if you would join me in escaping this dreadful heat?” 

How many days had he spent in the hot climates of Afghanistan fighting for our country? How many bouts of fever had he endured on his journey to recovery? 

Enough, I gently reminded myself. I had vowed not to deduce him and the first step to that was to stop my mind from following one logical thought to the next. 

“It does not agree with you?” I asked instead and he shuddered, as if the mere acknowledgement increased the temperature by several degrees. 

“Not in the least, and I have spent too many days working in it now to gain any kind of enjoyment from it.” 

“Working?” I probed while discarding robe and slippers and fumbling around for my keys. “I thought you had retired also?” 

“Yes, I have given up my own practice. But the villagers know that they can call on me in emergencies and, unfortunately, there have been several of those lately. Heat strokes, twisted ankles while out hiking, swimming accidents.” 

“Oh my dear fellow, it seems you’ve had an awful time of it,” said I laughing, reaching across to give his sun-kissed arm a squeeze. 

He did not flinch away from my touch. I wasn’t certain why I had expected him to. 

Together, we left my little cottage and rambled further inland where the shade of a forest beckoned us. He delighted me with little anecdotes regarding recent and past medical emergencies until we fell into an easy and companionable silence. 

The sky was of a piercing blue colour and even the lightest of breezes warm upon my cheek, but I did not mind. The separation from him had starved me of goodness and fulfilment, and I was loathe to relinquish it again. 

Still, we both uttered a contented sigh when the crowns of the trees at last sheltered us from the punishing rays of the sun. 

“I must confess that I have come here before. There is a little brook nearby that’s just utterly enchanting.” 

I nodded happily along, the notion of fresh running water to cool my feet in tantalising and so was surprised when Watson began to make apologies for his last sentence. 

“I have been told before that my descriptions can sometimes come across as terribly romantic. I get carried away a little, I suppose.” 

I told him not to worry but wondered secretly what else he was withholding. It had seemed for a moment or two as if he had been wanting to say more on the matter but then stopped himself. 

“I think your descriptions speak of your own sensitivities and appreciation of beauty. It is your prerogative, is it not?” 

“I suppose,” he shrugged, “I just fear that some might think me effeminate because of it.” 

My face must have crinkled into a frown, because he hurriedly averted his eyes as if afraid to find judgement. 

The truth was that Doctor Watson was the last man I would have deemed effeminate. With his broad shoulders and respectable soldier demeanour I had trouble seeing how anyone could judge him thusly. He was soft and kind, yes, but no more than that. 

So who then had rankled him with such a thoughtless remark? 

“Have you given any more thought to the case I shared?” I asked in hopes that the change of topic might suit him better, and indeed he shot me a relieved smile before answering. 

“I have indeed, though I’m afraid I have only come up with more questions.” 

“Excellent,” I responded enthusiastically, “I had expected nothing less of you.” 

Surprised, he glanced at me, his blue eyes whispering across my face. Then, suddenly, he seemed to blossom under my praise, his walk growing more confident, his expression pleased and his gaze brighter. 

“Shall we sit then while I interrogate you?” he asked, gesturing towards the little trickle of river he had previously mentioned. 

Naturally, I nodded in agreement and then sank down into the soft grass with him. Almost in tandem we divested ourselves of shoes and socks, rolled up our trousers and sighed in deep satisfaction when our feet met with the cool water. 

“The victim…was he burned to death then? I’m wondering as to the implication of the left behind stick.” 

“Very good,” I praised softly, pushing my palms into the soft earth to recline more comfortably. “Unfortunately, the remains found were so badly burned that it was impossible to say. Whether the Yard seemed to assume that he died by a blunt force trauma to the head or merely found that the walking stick implicated my client’s involvement, I cannot say.” 

Watson nodded and mirrored my movements, tilting his neck back also to peer through the thick roof of branches above us. 

“Did your client have any enemies? Someone who had a grievance with him so severe that he’d develop this elaborate scheme just to see him hanged?” 

“Not with him, per se. The motive was much more superficial and petty.”

I cocked my head to study him, delighting in the way his tie had come loose on our ramble and dangled softly askew, exposing a collar that had been parted already and beyond, a hint of bronzed skin. 

“Any accomplices?” 

“Yes,” I smiled indulgently. “You are proving an excellent detective Watson. Your questions are stellar and your mind inquisitive.” 

“Oh hush,” he chuckled, a laugh that rumbled from deep within his body and sent a burst of excitement through mine, “stop teasing me. That is not the mark of a decent fellow.”

“I never suggested I was.” 

That made him laugh even more and in his delight, he reached across and clasped my hand in his. 

“No, no, Holmes. I believe myself to be a good judge of character and you, my dear fellow, have integrity as well as a good heart.” 

He moved me with those words, more than I wanted him to see. He touched something within me that had thirsted for recognition and acceptance, and he was nourishing it with a tenderness that I was certain I did not deserve. 

“Would you like a hint?” I asked, more to distract him from the tears that had sprung to my eyes. 

“I thought you did not give any?” he countered rightfully. “Or do you think me so inapt?” 

Fearing that I had offended him, I opened my mouth but stopped myself when I saw how the wrinkles around his eyes had come to life by the smile that graced his lips. _He_ was teasing me now. 

“No, you are right. I shall keep my word. No hints, no clues.”

“But you could tell me one more thing,” he suddenly pressed, “were there any fingerprints left behind?” 

“Oh, Watson, you are scintillating today!” laughed I, lifting my foot so abruptly out of the river that we were momentarily assaulted by the water’s beads. 

“There was one print in particular that proved to be the key to solve the mystery.” 

“Marvellous,” he mumbled, obviously pleased with himself and then reciprocated the gesture so that we were showered with water anew.

It did not occur to me until that night that he had continued to hold on to my hand.


	6. Number 1, Queen Anne's Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I had a really hard time writing this chapter, but I hope it reads alright nonetheless. The next chapter will continue directly where this one ended. More comfort to come!

A part of me had always been drawn to the spiritual mysteries of the universe, and it was because of it that I wondered now whether there was a higher power at work ensuring that my encounters with John Watson remained measured. 

Mine was a strange personality, after all, caught between moments of abstinence and periods of boundless indulgence; and although I would not dare to diminish him by comparing my cravings for him to the dependency to my drugs, it hadn’t escaped me that I hungered for him desperately.

Two long weeks now separated me from that delightful moment by the brook and I tried (in vain) to sustain myself on memories of his touch and the intricate science of recalling every nuance of his face. But this could only satiate me so much before the beast in my chest roared greedily for more. 

My greatest fear was that he might come to see how much I yearned for him and that my need would inevitably repel him. And yet the fear could not stop my eager mind from devising a plan that would create another meeting. 

And so I set off one bright Saturday morning to purchase some goods at the East Dean farmer’s market. I have mentioned before that I loathe the customs that go hand in hand with such an outing, but I was of determined spirit that day and the promise of Watson’s company was enough to chase away any lingering doubt. 

With a smile on my face, I fended off the curios questions regarding my former occupation and at long last succeeded in purchasing a pot of honey which I had decided to present Watson with, provided I learned his address. 

To that end, I engaged the rosy-cheeked saleswoman in further conversation until I sensed the right moment to pose my question. I had not chosen her without careful consideration, of course. She had drawn the greatest crowd and stayed on the longest, leaning in occasionally to whisper what could only be delicate snippets of gossip to those familiar to her. If anyone could tell me where the doctor lived it was her. 

With a pensive look on my face, I lingered, pretending to be confused about something. 

“Anything you forgot, my dear?” she finally asked in that overbearing way I had come to associate with village-living. 

“Yes, now that you say it. I was rather desperately ill a few weeks ago and Doctor Watson was good enough to come by and look after me. It would only be right to repay him. Perhaps with a pot of your excellent honey that’s as golden as the glorious sun today.” 

“Oh Mr Holmes,” she laughed, her full face turning rosier still, “you do have a way with words. I am certain that the doctor would be pleased. He has a very sweet tooth, if you must know.” 

“Has he now? Capital.” 

When I chuckled, I meant it, for this latest discovery was particularly endearing. 

“He lives in a little flat in Queen Anne’s Street. Number 1 with the red brick work.” 

I thanked her most exuberantly and went my own way, unashamedly humming Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D major to myself. 

As surprised as I was to find that Watson owned little more than a flat, I came to the conclusion that the house itself suited his character most wonderfully. Between the gaps of brick against brick vines of ivy had settled, crawling ever higher and lending the red façade lush green highlights. Though the foundation looked firm and stable, the rest of the house was showing its age and to fit in with the other houses in the vicinity would surely have benefited from some restorative work. But its aged look made it feel more homely to me and my infatuated mind eagerly identified this as the reason for Watson’s decision to live there. 

Honey pot in hand, I at last ceased my observation and knocked on the front door. An elderly gentleman with stormy eyebrows opened, not bothering to disguise what a perfect fool he thought me. 

Perhaps it was the lively brightness of my cream-coloured suit, the straw hat that nestled on the crown of my head or the joyful excitement my face surely conveyed. Whatever it was, I found that I did not care. I had always felt my otherness most profoundly and no longer saw it as cause for concern as long as my newly-awakened tendencies did not become too apparent. 

“I am here to see Doctor Watson.” 

“His rooms are on the top floor, Sir,” offered the man and then quickly withdrew to the safety of his own chambers. 

Pleased to see the back of him, I climbed the creaking staircase two steps at a time and only stopped short in front of the next door I encountered. My youthful energy dissipated as quickly as it had come and with a flourish I swept away my hat to wipe the perspiration from my forehead. I could only laugh at those silly emotions that had befallen me, and once I had sufficiently recovered my breath, I lifted my hand once more to knock. 

Heavy footsteps indicated Watson’s arrival and for one glorious moment his blue eyes rushed over my figure, no doubt assessing my flamboyant attire. Then his face eased into the laughter lines I had grown so fond of. 

“Holmes!” he sounded surprised. “Are you quite alright?” 

“Yes, I am just fine, Watson. I came to see how you were and to deliver a small token of my appreciation.” 

He gave a flattered chuckle and then beckoned me to follow him into his rooms. That’s when I first noticed his pronounced limp and absent-minded manner in which he rubbed his shoulder. 

Not wishing to intrude, however, I held my peace and sat down on the comfortable-looking armchair offered to me. If I tilted my head just a little I could make out the vast green ocean of the Downs that stretched on endlessly. 

When I looked back at him, Watson was still where he had been a moment before, rigid with uncertainty. It appeared I had come at an inopportune moment. 

“Sit down, Watson,” I suggested politely, “you clearly are in some discomfort.” 

It broke my heart to see his eyes filled with shame flicker towards mine. 

“It’s the heat,” he answered in a voice I’d never heard before, one that was gruff and stiff, the voice of a soldier. “It aggravates the old injuries.” 

“Understandable, of course, which is why I suggest you take a seat. I will make us some tea in the meantime.” 

My forehead crinkled into a frown as I proceeded into the small room that served as a kitchen, my temper stirring just beneath the surface; a reaction that was as instinctive as it was ludicrous. 

I had never liked soldiers, never grasped their desire to kill and be killed under the hollow banner of patriotism. It was a waste of human intelligence, creativity and kindness and a sad tribute to rigid views and small-mindedness. In short, it was like nothing I had come to associate with Watson and, therefore, found his sudden change in behaviour difficult to cope with. 

In order to distract myself I scoured his cabinets in search of tea. Each one of the small spaces was arranged neatly but filled to the brim with goods, almost as if the doctor feared to encounter a period of famine. 

Whatever annoyance I had felt was softened somewhat by the observation that the most often used cabinet, the one whose handle showed the strongest marks of use, was the one that contained biscuits and other baked goods. It appeared the market vendor had been telling the truth. With that in mind, I made certain to add a generous spoonful of honey to Watson’s tea before bringing it back out to him. 

I was pleased to see that he had taken a seat in front of the opened window and was reclining seemingly comfortably with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. 

For a moment, I halted my step, watching him caught in that brief moment of peace while we both enjoyed the breeze that flowed in freely from outside. Then the temperature of our beverages necessitated a move and so I stepped closer, clearing my throat to alert him to my presence. 

“You seem to have had a difficult time, Watson.” 

He nodded, barely managing a grateful smile as he accepted the mug. 

“Not any different from the last time I saw you, really.” 

I directed my gaze outside, wishing to hide from him that I knew he wasn’t being truthful. It was surprising then to hear him chuckle with deep resignation, followed by the sound of a mug being set down. 

“Who am I kidding? You already know that this is only one half of the story.” 

Respecting his privacy, I kept my eyes from meeting his. 

“One of the men I was asked to tend to was a veteran from a different regimen. His wounds had grown infected and I was only happy to help. What I found, however, was nothing more than a shell of a man. A soulless creature with wide, frightened eyes in which familiar demons danced.” 

From the corner of my own eye I could observe the anxious manner in which he clasped and unclasped his hand upon his knee. 

“He wasn’t mute, his family assured me, but he had ceased to speak when he returned. I knelt down before him and examined his wound carefully, fearing that any sudden movement might aggravate him. On the contrary…” 

Here, he paused, his voice growing thick with emotion and if only I dared to look, I was certain to find tears in his eyes. 

“He produced…the softest of sounds, a hum…no, that’s not it, a mewl, a whimper. And then he pushed himself against my hand as if asking for more.” 

His voice broke entirely and finally I could no longer bear to avoid his gaze. But looking at him wasn’t enough to express the sympathy I felt either, and so I reached out to place my hand on top of his. 

“This man, this poor old man was starved for warmth and affection despite being surrounded by a loving family. It is that very loneliness I, too, have felt since my return. As if I’m entirely hollow and nothing could possibly make me feel whole again.” 

I seized his hands with renewed firmness, my fingers automatically interlacing themselves with his. How quickly he could leave me shaken, as if our beings had been forcibly separated and were pulled together now with desperate resonance, for I also wasn’t a stranger to the vast emptiness he was describing. 

“Since then I have been plagued by nightmares again. No level of fatigue can soothe me to sleep. I awake screaming time and time again, facing those poor souls I couldn’t save and those I’ve had to kill.” 

I could feel him quiver beneath my touch. 

“So in addition to the physical pain, I am just so damnably fatigued, I cannot bear it. And I’m terribly sorry, Holmes, for being such poor company to you today.” 

“Oh my dear fellow, what utter nonsense! You’ve been as polite and kind as ever. I really am just very sorry to hear of your predicament. I cannot begin to imagine the horrors you and others of your kind witnessed back then. But let me offer you this, if you would deem it acceptable; I will sit with you tonight as you try to sleep. I will be silent if you prefer or entertain you with my little detective stories if it is a distraction you desire.” 

For a minute I feared he might refuse but then gradually, as if he had given it considerable thought, he nodded.


	7. A Nighttime Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For KoiiFiishiion, hoping that when fears plague you at night Holmes and Watson will be there to bring you some light!

It was a peculiar afternoon that the doctor and I spent together. I say peculiar because I had been ignorant up until then to the fact that two men who had only just met could while away time in so intimate and comfortable a fashion. 

With his grief and shame exposed and acknowledged, Watson’s demeanour softened and he returned to being as amenable to my questions as before. He talked to me at length about his own, professional experience and even regaled me with the more gruesome details I tended to delight in. 

We only stopped when he decided it was time we ate and the silence that befell us while we consumed copious amounts of cheese, meats and bread was one of easily established peace.

“Do you know anything about gardening?” I found myself asking a while later when the brilliant orange hues of the setting sun pierced the window and cast his face in a more pensive light. 

His gaze had been steadily directed outside for some time, his expression growing gloomier still until I thought myself capable of seeing the dark grasp of shadow strengthening its hold upon his heart.

“Gardening?” he repeated with a faint incredulity that betrayed the absent-mindedness of his current state. 

“Indeed. Believe me, it is not as random as it might first appear to be. For some time I have been fascinated by apiology, otherwise known as the study of bees. And now that I have acquired a cottage of my own, I have been pondering the idea of a hive or two.” 

Watson nodded politely, a frown creasing his brow as if it required considerable effort to focus on my words. 

“Naturally this is an undertaking that requires careful consideration and to that end, I thought that a few flowerbeds would be a wonderful addition if only I knew how to go about creating them.” 

“I see. Unfortunately, I am no expert myself, but perhaps some of the women in the village could share their knowledge and if it doesn’t sound too difficult and my injuries are no longer affecting me quite so badly, we could attempt it together?” 

I thanked him for his kind offer but stopped pursuing the matter further, as I could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. And how could it be when his mind was so obviously distracted by thoughts and impressions so terrible an outsider could hardly imagine? 

In my years as a consulting detective I had often been moved by the stories of those who had sought out my help, but rarely had I perceived my skill to be a curse as I did in this moment. 

How wretched it felt to be able to observe a man’s grief and struggle, to catch every nuance of his anguish and yet be powerless to creating change. Unlike those clients of mine wrongly accused of a crime, I could not free him from the shackles that bound him, nor could I think of a solution that would begin to soothe his pain. 

Clumsily, and all too aware of my own helplessness, I reached for his arm and beckoned him to face me. 

“If you are still happy with the thought of me staying, perhaps you would like to dress for bed?” 

His brows furrowed and for a moment I feared my proposal may have sounded indecent, but then he nodded to himself, acknowledging that perhaps he would be more comfortable that way. 

As he left to change in the privacy of his bedroom, I busied myself clearing away what crockery we had used for our meal. I did not like being confronted with my own limitations and knew all too well how easily this could trigger a descent into my darker moods. So remaining occupied for the moment was vital. 

“Holmes?” his call came at last and drying my hands on a nearby towel, I followed it to the only room that had remained locked before. 

Fitting the modest layout of the flat, Watson’s bedroom was also simple but functional, consisting of only a bed and a nightstand on top of which a dog-eared book had been placed. A narrow door led further into the back of the house where only the toilet and bath could be located. 

“Will you be comfortable enough on a chair from the living room?” he asked, rightly pointing out the flaw in my plan. 

Truthfully, I had been much too distracted by studying the details of his abode – not to mention his nightshirt-clad appearance which showed little more than his bare ankles and feet – to adopt any such practical mind-set. 

“Excellent, Watson,” I acknowledged with a chuckle, “I hadn’t thought this through. If we can fit the chair through your door, it should not pose a problem.” 

He made to follow me into the living room but I bade him to spare his body and get into bed instead, relieved at the opportunity to collect myself.

Upon my return he was where I had instructed him to be, stealing glances out of the window at a world that was slowly being swallowed up by darkness. All lights had been extinguished in the room also and so I slipped my hand into his, hoping it would tether him to the present. 

For a while we remained like this; I, rigid against the hard back of the chair, he, nervously shifting about, his palm clammy and tense. 

“Have you given any more thought to the case we were discussing?” I asked in a desperate attempt to distract him and when his eyes met mine in the dark, they were filled with the most heart-breaking sense of helplessness. 

He was lost before me and I did not know how to save him. 

“Talk to me, Watson,” I therefore entreated, “I know it’s hard, but please try.” 

“I am not a detective, Holmes. I’m not nearly as bright as you.” 

“Hush now and speak to me,” I bade him yet again. “You are a kind man, John Watson, and that requires a wisdom of its own.” 

He chuckled then, anxiously, quietly, but I could not fail to notice that my words had succeeded in settling him somewhat. 

“I have no explanation why, nor a clue as to the motive, but there is something odd about that chap that suddenly appeared in your client’s life and asked him to draw up the will.” 

“Excellent, Watson, excellent,” I praised him softly, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze, “your instincts and knowledge of mankind serve you well.” 

“So it was him then?” he probed with a sudden zeal for answers. “But that’s impossible! How can he be culprit and victim all at once?” 

Buoyed by his interest, I shifted towards the edge of the seat and asked him if he truly wanted me to solve the riddle. 

“It’s unjust to taunt a fellow, Holmes. Just tell me what happened. I beg of you!”

I barely succeeded in biting back exuberant laughter and happily told him everything about Jonas Oldacre, the builder who had devised a devious scheme that had involved the use of a secret chamber and very nearly seen an innocent man hanged. 

“But why, Holmes, why? It doesn’t make any sense. What did he stand to gain from it all?” 

I patted his hand to soothe his state of excitation. 

“Revenge, my dear fellow. It was a simple and petty motive. You see, my client’s mother had in her youth made the mistake of rebuffing Mr Oldacre’s advances.” 

His passionate outburst dissipated as quickly as it had come and left in its stead a bitter sadness. 

“What pointless acts we’re capable of.” 

His voice was grave yet again and I clasped his hand more firmly in an effort to keep him with me. But try as I might, I could not shake him out of the mood that had befallen him and before long he succumbed to uneasy sleep. 

I maintained my vigil by his side for as long as my tired body allowed it but inevitably abandoned myself to drowsiness as well. 

He did not scream, not as loudly or dramatically as my frightened imagination had painted it. It was a sound much softer than that which roused me in the middle of the night. A yelp, light and terrible, followed by a weary groan that seemed to emanate from deep within his body. 

In the faint moonlight I saw the sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he thrashed about on his bed, reliving what horrors had once been his reality. 

Perhaps I was tired beyond reason at that point, for it appeared to me the only plausible thing to shift into bed with him. It was a precarious balancing act and the mattress creaked under the weight of our bodies, but eventually I succeeded into pulling him into my arms, the sweat of his back drenching my shirt and waistcoat. 

I held him as securely as I could, ignoring the strain the effort took before long. He was hot underneath my skin and fragile despite the broadness of his stature. 

Whether he noticed me there with him, I cannot say. But gradually his body stilled and his breathing became steady, and yet I clung onto him, praying that he would not come to loathe me in the morning, hoping that I would be permitted to hold him again.


End file.
